The last time we fucked was ten years ago. So Ten is an apt enough name for him. A lot has changed since then, in a good way. I'm not nineteen for a start. I'm older, wiser, better looking and frankly a lot more aware of my own sexuality than I was back then. Then he was the more experienced one, from my teenage girl perspective at any rate, the one who knew what to do and what he wanted (yeah, we've both smirked about that, he was a sagely twenty-three). The tables are turned somewhat, he's acknowledged himself as vanilla - but curious and keen, I'm the one with the knowledge, with the experience. Which isn't to say he's without, he still has the greatest finger-action known to mankind and should probably teach classes: remaining one of my few sexual partners to ever easily and consistently bring me to orgasm, for a total of four and a bit times. But my needs and wants are wide and different to my needs and wants back then.
Desires too. I was initially worried. Whilst we still have exceptional chemistry and a level of comfort around each other that perhaps only those ten years could have given us. No expectations beyond what it was, assumptions that it would be easy and that it would be good. It had been such a long time since I'd had anything approaching vanilla sex that I wasn't sure whether I would want it, be able to do it or be able to get off on it. As it turns out, it was strange and at certain points downright odd. There was no pain, there were no toys, no rope. None of the conventional points of BDSM foreplay that I had become accustomed too and I did feel their lack. After we stripped down I'd expected him to push me over or hit me, or something of that ilk. I don't know exactly what, but I had this memory of him back then, pushing my face against the cool tile wall of a student-hall shower and fucking me hard. I was waiting for him to take charge, and he didn't. It felt strange to be just there, together.
It was almost like having sex in another language. A totally different mode and format. I'd forgotten what it was like to be touched so much and so softly, he stroked my skin a lot, long brushes up and down in the natural lines of my contours. Kisses too. Hundreds of them. A sudden embarrassment of riches, now, between him and Majeste after my recent drought. Flooded with them. Physical expressions of his infrequent exclamations about my body, how good it looked. Being held and touched like that, without any associations of D/s, without even the tiniest amount of bondage. Yet it wasn't entirely vanilla. Because I was there, and with me came my brain, my context, and whatever else was going on, I was thinking kink.
This naked man, good looking and lean, doing nothing but deliver pleasure, compliments and long, soft looks.
He looks at me with those big hazel poet's eyes. I explain, he relaxes as I talk, then grins. "So, there's all these filthy perverted things that you want to do to me?" I nod. He grins again, then goes back to kissing my back and playing with my clit. The pleasure he takes in my pleasure - we didn't fuck much, he didn't come at all - I bathed in the sensations he delivered, luxuriating in them and in his appreciation (worship?) of me and of my body as surely as any Domme with her boy. It's a nice feeling, I'll admit and I'll also admit that, as with much D/s I'm not sure which is "real" and which is formed by impressions in my head. But I do know that when I came, I thought of him as mine, as doing this for me because it was what I want. And what we did came so easy because we are sexually aligned in some senses - no, he doesn't have the BDSM experience but it was obvious what he wanted, what he enjoyed. The power-exchange wasn't huge or deep, whatever was happening was very playful, but it didn't feel like straight sex to me.
He'll be gone from town by the end of the weekend, to another city. We've made some plans to make it less than another ten years. I'm spending the day in the warm glow of many orgasms, formulating a list of things to do to him.